


One Shot

by InsaneTrollLogic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s01e22 Devil's Trap, Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 13:38:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1349374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsaneTrollLogic/pseuds/InsaneTrollLogic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a body in the back seat. Post Devil's Trap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Shot

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Выстрел](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7281835) by [Fotini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fotini/pseuds/Fotini), [M_Vish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Vish/pseuds/M_Vish)



> Originally posted to LJ 7/2/2006. (Still the fic of mine that gets the most comments even 8 years later)

 

I.

  
  
It takes two weeks for the weird stuff to start happening. Weird stuff always starts to happen when you buy things from Bobby for a tenth of what they were worth. You don’t know why you thought the old impala would be any different especially after last month’s debacle with the toaster.  
  
It’s pretty hard to miss the weirdness when you get into your car, adjust the rearview mirror and catch sight of a body in the back. But when you turn around to look at the back seat, there’s no one there.  
  
There’s about half a second of complete silence before the radio squawks on suddenly and Black Sabbath’s blaring out of the speakers. There’s an odd sort of static under the music. Your head snaps around to investigate, but your gaze snags on a figure in the passenger’s seat. Tallish, shaggy brown hair, he’s not transparent, but he’s flickering. He cocks an eyebrow at the radio.  _“You know, there’s EVP on that.”_  
  
And they’re both gone.  


 

II.

  
  
“Mommy? Can we have some salt?” your little boy pleads, grabbing at the shelves. “Salt, mommy!”  
  
“Salt?” you repeat, dumbly. “Why do you need salt?”  
  
“Sammy says,” his voice is so soft you almost miss it.  
  
You’re vaguely worried about his overactive imagination, “Sam, huh?”  
  
He doesn’t answer. You buy him the salt.  


 

III.

  
  
“You sold me a haunted car, Bobby.”  
  
He shrugs, tugs on his jacket, doesn’t deny it. “You didn’t ask. I didn’t tell. You know the rules.”  
  
“I have two little boys and there’s a dead person in the back seat of my car. And then there’s the one in the passenger’s seat…”  
  
“I won’t help you get rid of them,” he says flatly. “Trust me, I wouldn’t do anything to put you or your boys in any danger.” An odd look crosses his face. “I’ll buy the car back if that’s what you want.”  
  
You don’t know how to answer that because although you don’t want to admit it, you’re little attached to those two ghosts. The baby’s really taken a shine to the older one… “Do you know who they are—were?”  
  
Bobby won’t quite meet your eyes. “They were friends of mine.” And when he tries to smile you see something cross his face like he’s aged twenty years in the span of ten seconds, but when you blink it’s gone and the Bobby you know is there again. “They didn’t deserve to go out the way they did.”  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
He sniffs and straightens up. There’s a fresh cut on his chin, half hidden by his beard. “If you want to get rid of them, you’ll have to salt and burn the bodies.”  
  
“What were their names?” you ask because you can’t bring yourself to ask where they were buried.  
  
“Take care of yourself, Marianne,” Bobby says and turns away.  
  
It’s not an answer. You hadn’t expected one.  


 

IV.

  
  
You think the ghosts are brothers. Not that there’s not much physical resemblance but the way they act they must have grown up together.  
  
They fight constantly. Never fist fights, but verbal scuffles, almost friendly insults in indistinct voices. It’s starting to feel normal. Comforting even. You can’t help but think that will be your boys in a few years.  
  
And besides, you’ve gotten used to it. You never were one for change.  


 

V.

  
  
“Why are you here?”  
  
You ask the same question every time you see the two ghosts. It’s two months before you get an answer.  
  
_“This is where we died,”_  the younger one says and there’s no sadness in his voice, just blunt honesty and a little disbelief.  _“A car wreck.”_  
  
_“Eternity in the back seat,”_  the older one says and shakes his head.  _“That’s the last time I ever let this idiot drive.”_  


 

VI.

  
  
It’s distressing how familiar the ghost’s presence become. How well your eldest takes to the one in the back seat, listening wide-eyed as the ghost tells him story after story about demons and monsters that ring of the truth despite the subject matter. The baby will stop crying when he’s in the car, and the older ghost mumbled garbled lyrics of songs you’ve never heard while the younger ghosts watches and laughs.  
  
If your husband could see them too, it would almost be like one big family. But he has a way of looking through thing that are right in front of him and the two ghosts either can’t or won’t talk to him.  


 

VII.

  
  
There’s a symbol on the trunk that wasn’t there the day before. A star inscribed in a circle. You rub at it, but it doesn’t smear. The older ghost it staring at you through the car’s back window. Face flickering in and out of being almost to fast to get a full picture. The nagging familiarity’s back, but you still can’t place his face.  
  
You open the trunk and almost immediately slam it again. The ghost smirks at you from the back seat and you can see his mouth forming the words,  _“My car.”_  
  
And you believe him. It’s not the same car as it was a second ago. The sleek black coating is dulled and dented and one of the tail lights is smashed and there’s a deadened glint in the ghost’s eyes.  _“It’s my car,”_ he says again,  _“I died here.”_  
  
You close your eyes and shake your head and force yourself to think of reality. Ghosts were one thing, but opening up your trunk to find a small arsenal of guns, knives and lighter fluid was something completely different. You open the trunk again and survey the contents. It’s all back to normal. You let out a sigh of relief. The ghost has disappeared from view.  
  
And then your eyes snag on a small wooden box. You reach for it, hands shaking and undo the latch. Inside there’s a gun and a hastily scrawled message.  
  
_One shot._  


 

VIII.

  
  
When you wake up, there’s a four year old at the foot of the bed, wide eyes standing out under blonde bangs. “What’sa matter, sport?” you ask, groggily. “It’s late.”  
  
He looks at you, mouth open slightly. He’s holding the box of salt. A thin trail of the fine white crystals is seeping out of the edge. “Sammy says something bad’s coming.”  
  
“Yeah,” you swing yourself out of bed and crouch down next to him. “When did he say that?”  
  
The trail of salt falls silently, piling at his feet. “In the car.”  
  
You laugh a little. “I think I’d have noticed if Sammy was talking.”  
  
He shuffles his feet. “Not our Sammy. The grown up one. The one in the car.”  
  
Chills chase each other down your spine and you grab him gently by the shoulders. “What did he say, Dean?”  
  
The clock on the wall has stopped. There’s a light flickering in the hallway.  
  
“It’s going to hurt you real bad. I was going to try and stop it… The other one says salt helps.” He’s biting his lips and for a moment he looks so serious you don’t recognize him at all.  
  
And then you do.  
  
Realization slams into you so hard and fast that you feel the air go out of your lungs because at that moment, you looked at your little boy in front of you and see the dead man in the backseat and know that they are both Dean.  
  
Then you blink and all you can see is the four year old clutching the salt like a security blanket and shaking a little. The baby monitor crackles. “Where’s you dad?”  
  
“Sleeping.”  
  
“I’ve got to go check on Sammy.”  
  
You stand up and a cold wind hits you and you wonder what possessed you to wear a nightgown in Autumn. You’ve never noticed it before, but there’s something sacrificial about a white gown. You can see a face in the doorway, the ghost from the passenger’s seat watching you. He meets your eyes and nods towards the closet.  
  
Your feet follow his gaze and you walk mechanically to the closet and grab the gun from the top shelf. The ghost, Christ, Sammy, smiles sadly. Dean tugs at your sleeve. “Mommy? What’s wrong?”  
  
“It’ll be alright, Dean,” you say and wish you believed it. “Just stay here.”  


 

IX.

  
  
The walk down to Sam’s room is a thousand times longer than you remember and there’s a knot settling in your stomach that you can’t explain.  
  
There’s a shadowy someone over Sam’s crib and it looks like John. (of course it’s John)  
  
“John?” you hope your voice isn’t shaking.  
  
“Shh,” he whispers.  
  
The older Dean is leaning against the far wall.  _“That’s not him.”_ There’s blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.  _“You’ve got to believe me.”_  
  
The shadow starts to turn. You see a glint of yellow in the unfamiliar eyes.  
  
You raise the gun and pull the trigger.


End file.
